14 Ways to Spend the Day
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: John has a perfect Valentine's day.


_Running_

With his heart hammering in his ears, lungs and legs burning, the rush of adrenaline pushing him forward as three sets of feet – two pursuing, one fleeing – pounded across the narrow, sleet dampened pavement. Hoping this, all of this – the soaring, like each step might launch him into the air, like he couldn't stop, laughter bubbling up, grin splitting his lips – would never end.

_Hiding_

No idea where they were, crouched in some fetid alley behind some bins that smelled worse, hands pressed against lips to muffle harsh breathing, senses on alert. He could see, hear, smell everything – the shadows lit up like liquid gold, the sound of their quarry slowing, lost, confused, the faint hint of shampoo and cologne, a heady mixture that didn't quite cover the stench from the bins.

_Pouncing_

Muscles bunching, spring, releasing, the world snapping by as they went down, grunting, a struggle of limbs and weight, one to get free, one to restrain, the advantage reinforced when Sherlock lent his own weight against the desperate suspect, both of them managing to keep him down until relief arrived.

_Sassing_

Although that was more Sherlock than him, and he knew he should stop it but the irritation on Donovan's face and the smirk on Sherlock's only made him grin, add a comment or two that would egg it on until Sherlock breezed away, triumphant, dragging John in his wake.

_Giggling_

(They really shouldn't have been, because it _was_ a crime scene, at least until they'd cleared the yellow tape.)

_Staggering_

Because it was hard to walk straight with Sherlock's gloved hands on his face, pulling him forward, laughter lost in a kiss that should never end, and they really shouldn't be so cavalier about it as they fell into the taxi, but Sherlock shoved far too much money at the driver, and suddenly some things didn't matter.

_Pretending_

Not to fidget, hands jammed into his pockets because who knows where they'd be otherwise, reminding himself over and over to listen to what Mrs. Hudson was saying, not just to nod along while his mind was elsewhere, although that was _certainly_ what Sherlock was doing, and as soon as the door had shut behind her, there was a hand on his back, propelling him up the stairs. As if he needed the encouragement.

_Fumbling_

With freezing fingers, trying to undo buttons and zips while stumbling backwards, clothing coming off as best it could while mouths refused to relinquish each other.

_Cursing_

Because the water was too hot after a day in the rain and sleet. Then again, not long after, for very different reasons.

_Sneezing_

Since the one thing Sherlock never bothered to remember (about John) was the mild allergy that was, unsurprisingly, exacerbated when the detective filled their room nearly to the brim with roses. Anti-histamines were thrown at him while the flowers (romantic though they were supposed to be) were relocated to in front of Mrs. Hudson's door.

_Sleeping_

But not really sleeping, although he could at least say they were in bed. Yelping when Sherlock's somehow still freezing feet pressed against his calves, only encouraging the detective to torture him more. Wrestling him into (temporary and probably faked) submission, smiling when words finally failed his normally verbose and demanding partner, the tug of fingers in his hair and small whimpers telling John everything he needed to know.

_Eating_

Curled up on the sofa, under a blanket, with ridiculously over-priced takeaway and a bottle of expensive champagne that Sherlock had found somewhere (probably stolen), watching crap telly.

_Kissing_

Clumsily, because one bottle had turned into two, and then another which they couldn't quite finish, and Sherlock tasted of it and John couldn't feel the tips of his fingers or his teeth, and it was amazing.

_Nothing_

Rain pattering against the window only making the flat seem cozier, a cocoon of bodies on the sofa, curled over and around each other, somehow comfortable under the heap of blankets with dark hair tickling his chin and warm breath brushing his neck as tired, lazy fingers twined patterns into his t-shirt and he smiled tiredly, pressing his lips into the crown of dishevelled curls, his perfect end to a perfect day.


End file.
